


Observances in Paradise

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, No abuse, Non-graphic underage (term "fiddle" for the action of self-soothing), Not Weecest, f/m fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:11:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim





	Observances in Paradise

Title: Observances in Paradise  
Author: framedhim  
Rating: NC-17  
Pairing: main – Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC’s  
Warnings: confused very young, non-graphic underage (so everyone knows, I use the term ‘fiddle’ to imply), no Weecest, including masturbation

For **essene 's** prompt, "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan// a stately pleasure-dome decree." for the delicious LiveJournal community **salt_burn_porn**.  
Not beta’d, bad framed :/ I will edit this but I needed to get this up as I’m late already with posting. And now that it's been posted I'll add one more thing - the underage in this isn't a kink, rather, I'd meant it to be a set-up as a Pavlovian reaction between the brothers as well as a very common, child behaviorism when a child is under duress. 

+

 

Dean’s four, an adorable mess of tow-headed mischief the women at the shelter said, and he misses his mom. Tonight’s the first night without anyone watching over him and the baby while dad’s out getting dinner. They left the shelter two days ago, slept in the car the first night, and checked into a motel the second. He’s scared, doesn’t know what to do if there’s any grown-up problems like Sammy choking or him burning up if another fire starts, and he’s looking into the make-shift bassinet his dad’s made out of a back-alley Woolworth crate. 

Yeah, he misses his mom something bad like when her long, pretty hair would trail over his shoulder as she helped him with his paint-by-numbers car picture. He misses how she smelled up close, baked pies and brownies, and five minutes later, he still can’t stop watching Sam puff little breaths. He misses his mom, wishes he could wrap his arms around her neck, whisper ‘I love you, momma’ into the soft curve of her neck. Dean knows she would be upset with him that the baby doesn’t have enough blankets. 

It’s good watching the baby – one breath, two breaths - and Dean squirms in the huge motel bed, worried about why his dad has been gone longer than the Scooby Doo and Shaggy cartoon has been on, and it's upsetting that he can’t fall asleep. He maybe feels bad for laughing, couldn’t stop the giggles when Scooby pulled the mask off the doctor pretending to be some meanie Khan guy.

There's a commercial break, and he tells himself once again that's it's good watching Sammy because mom didn’t make it out of a giant fire and dad and him are real, real sad, and now his chest feels tight and weird. Dad’s face gets all kinds of ugly now with these big fat tears smearing down his jaw when he doesn’t think Dean’s looking. Dean, he knows the tight feeling he has is a warm-up to some crying of his own. So Dean squirms, not thinking of anything but wanting his dad back and for Sammy to be okay, and he reaches down to where mom only had to tell him once ‘never in public, honey’ and fiddles.

So he fiddles and hears the tv commercial go away, ABC nightly news coming on to bore him to death, and he’s watching Sammy live while he presses down absent-mindedly until he hears the lock on the motel door turn. A blast of cool late afternoon air hits him, and his head feels floaty being afraid of everything. His eyes snap to the open door and the superhero figure his dad becomes as he's outlined and shadowed in front of the sunlight that soaks the room. Dad walks into the room, paper bag crinkling, and the rush of being safe is too much, and there's a crazy spike of feeling good zipping from where he fiddles down to his stomach.

He watches, exhausted and confused, and the paper bag is on the table, a head of lettuce tumbling out and rolling around like a weeble wobble. Dean loves his dad, loves how the man hulks out standing over him, and craves his rough pats to the top of his head. There’s no smell of beer tonight, at least not right now, and he shifts into his dad’s arms and hears a mumble of ‘you okay, boy?’ and something about ‘cheeks are flushed, need to check for fever.’ Dean loves his father, knows that dad hangs the moon and is sad as the stars now that mom’s gone. His pop smells like outside, fresh cut grass and something sharper – sweat and that stuff he puts on after he shaves. The smell is thick, and Dean’s almost out - has to look at baby Sammy one more time. He watches three more tiny whiffs of breath and then lights out. He whispers, "Miss mommy, Sammy does too," into his dad’s cheek before his eyes close. 

+

Dean’s eight, hair a mess of curls right before he needs a trim and the blonde fading to something brownish. 

_Whatever_ , he thinks, _not as if anyone cares_. He cares, gives a dawg gone about the girls in class wanting to put their stupid fingers in the mop-top, and he sure cares about the boys, doesn’t want to get in another fight after school because he’s taking all their girls away. _Whatever_ , he thinks again. It's not his problem the boys in this dumb city are too soft, too much like their old men to make a girl smile.

See, Dean’s been checking them out – not the idiot boys – but the families here. It’s a given that his dad takes him and Sammy with him every once in a blue moon. Families that are always crying, dads even - with their beer guts and their snotty attitudes - and Dean knows the score with the stupid boys in class. Trey’s dad is cool, sad though, and Trey’s been over at their small rental home, his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle backpack so full of homework the boy is constantly tipping to the side. 

Dean and him clamor up the steps to the cottage, slamming open the rickety wooden screen door after another totally boring second grade hell. Trey’s mom is missing somewhere in the forest about a ten-mile walk down the road, thick maples and pine keeping her in there, and Dean’s friend is moping. He gets it, sees the dark circles under the other boy’s eyes – purples and blacks. 

“Where’s your dad?”

Funny question that is, that Dean knows John’s in the woods with a hammer blessed by some creepy old lady that lives two blocks down from the library; that John is by himself, looking for Trey's mom, and that the claw hammer is something to do with a...a relic he thinks it was called. Speaking of which, Dean taps a piece of coffee-stained notepad taped to the hallway mirror, the words _Khan Dynasty_ and _vessel_ , and the hell if he knows what any of that means. 

“No clue, dude. Hold on – Sammy!” he yells. An answering squeak of wired four year old settles his mind’s doubts before he adds, “There’s pizza in the fridge." He makes his way towards the kitchen where the babysitter, the baby brother, and the glorious food all are. Only…

Dean flips the kitchen light on, thinking for a split second on how odd that is, when he stops dead in his tracks. Because there on the kitchen floor, in a pile of spilt Coco Puffs, is his kid brother with a chubby hand down the front of his pj bottoms, his cheeks lit up a bright tomato red and eyes a swollen mess. 

Dean’s knocked forward, a stumbling oaf of a friend banging into him, and he can’t stop to think _But where the hell is the babysitter?_ and can't help but freak out and shout, “Sammy!”

Trey’s eyes pop wide at the scene, his mouth stuck in a fish face gape. Dean can’t freeze, can’t handle the sight of his baby brother so terrified and scoops Sammy up, the kid’s hand still in his pants, and Dean smashes his face into the child’s neck. He can’t. He can’t even think beyond who he’s going to kill, string alive like dad threatens the many floating telephone voices, and Trey shoulder bumps him – gets him gulping in breaths and scenting his kid brother’s skin. Smelling him, wet dog scent of being outside playing and kool-aid, and he doesn’t know what the ever living hell happened today but Sammy’s okay. 

They’re both scared shitless, but Sammy’s okay now. 

+

At seventeen, Dean’s long ago figured out what his dick is for and how to use it well. Dad’s told him before, "Don’t let it rule your life," but Dean knows if he’s man enough to be hunting and playing a pseudo-father more and more with each passing year and finishing up school, then he’s man enough to spread the love that only his dick can provide. 

And he does – spread the love. All the time. Most days, he manages to get by with a quick jerk-off session in the bathroom and that’s that. No tenting with the passing breeze because chances are, Lydia from Mrs. Tack’s class is blowing him in the school’s cafeteria junk closet until his eyes cross. Or Annie, from Room 200, who lets him finger her during a library break. 

Annie’s a quick finger bang; she likes him flicking her clit, wet little button he finds easily when she spreads her muscled runner’s thighs. She's forever wearing this bejeweled denim mini-skirt, allowing him easy access to push her cotton panties aside and get her pussy slicking up so he can sink his thumb in as far as he can reach. Annie’s quick to finish, always stands with her back to him like she’s searching for a book. Dean rides her ass through his own denim, pressing in tight and sideways so that even in the darkened aisle, no one can see he’s mapping out her cunt like it’s his job.

Two minutes tops - she only ever closes her eyes for a few seconds - and Dean shoots off in his jeans, untouched, each damn time. After the girl’s walls unclench, stop fluttering, Dean pulls his fingers free and leans into her space, crisp apple perfume hitting him in the gut. He sucks the tips clean, lips smacking, and whispers, "Okay," and he’s off. 

Only, today is unexpected. Today, he lets his dick rule over all his other senses, and Annie manages a nasty surprise on him. Tanned skin, permed hair, and she smiles slyly over her shoulder at him, says, “Hey there, Sam.”

Dean just shot his wad, so sure he’s sluggish, but he can still register that what Annie just said is beyond fucked up. Everyone knows his kid brother – they’ve been sitting on Lambert Falls, Ohio, like it’s the end of the road; seven months and counting, with Sam on two different geek squads after school. He’s about to tell her good luck, sayonara, when he hears a sound, a shuffle of sneakers on threadbare carpet, and instead, he’s spinning. Loss of blood to his head thanks to the movement, thanks to cumming like the seventeen year old he is, it’s nothing compared to the dizzying ride his brain is on when he winds up face to face with his geek brother.

Sam stands there, dad’s flannel shirt over Dean’s white tee engulfing the kid, one hand grasping a book and holding it towards Dean. Dean sputters, thinks on what the fuck the boy just saw, and hopes to all that’s holy that Sam can keep his fucking mouth shut. He’s terrified, can’t quite place what it is he needs to say in order to make this scenario in any way, shape, or form suitable and okay.

Sam hands him the book, smiling a grin that isn’t anything that’s been on the kid’s face before. Certainly nothing that's been on Dean's radar. Shy, then confident, with shaggy brown hair falling in his eyes. The kid licks his lips, and Dean’s on that like now. The spit-shine gloss of his kid brother’s lips confusing him, blending in with the anger of being caught, and Annie’s scent in his mouth. Dean does the only thing that makes sense: reaches for the book without pause and grins maniacally at Sam.

Sam knows. He knows, and he doesn't let Dean's smirk egg him on. “It’s that book of poems you needed for your lit class, weirdo. Good luck, Dean. Samuel Coolidge is gonna blow your mind.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean says, watches as Annie hightails it halfway down the library’s corridor to get to class. The buzzer just rang, he needs to get moving, and he makes to push past his smarmy kid brother. Sam grunts, turns into the push; slender hips jerk forward helplessly, and that sole instance wipes the bizarre look clean off the boy’s face. Dean feels it, feels the hard line of Sam’s dick against his hip, and they’re statues, motionless. Sam backs down immediately before Dean is able to get the, “It’s okay, Sam,” out. 

Sam’s a blur out the library doors, and Dean is stunned. He whispers, “You’re thirteen, it rules your life.”

Only, the day doesn’t let up, and his traitor dick decides chubbing out is the way to go during his next class. Mrs. Orion - she of the tiny tits, a B cup at most, and shoulder-length brown hair – is leaning down, shoulder to shoulder with him and her rayon blouse loose in the front. It's hanging open, Dean side-eyes against his better judgement, and there’s her bra. Front-closure clasp, all Dean’d have to do is snick it open, palm the small offerings. 

Mrs. Orion of English and Literature, his very married teacher with her boyish waist and narrow hips, is tall in height and completely earthy. There’s a waft of deodorant hitting him as she continues leaning over him, but Mrs. Orion smells mostly like outside, fresh-cut grass, and she’s musky. She smells like Sam when Sam’s pinned beneath Dean outside wrestling, like when they're both wound up, balls aching from the kicks, and dicks hard as steel from the close proximity and exertion. 

Dean needs to fuck something. He wants to bend his teacher over his desk, grab her hair (shaggy, Sam needs to cut his), and fuck her from behind. As soon as class is over, he’s out the school’s front door and in the Impala. Dad’s rule, don’t mess up the car, keeping him from flicking his jeans open and jerking off hot and fast. 

Five torturous minutes later and he’s in the motel room, barely aware of his surroundings as he grunts and opens his jeans. His brain is aware enough to hear the bathroom door open, on enough of an alert system to see his kid brother level him with a glare and stand there, challenging. Dean can’t think for the blood rushing in his ears, and when Sam licks his lips, eyes riveted to Dean’s dick being stroked by Dean’s hands that have a mind of their own, Dean loses it. 

Okay, he’s not okay. Hand and jeans covered in jizz, Sammy panting and slamming the bathroom door closed, they’re not okay. Something happened, Dean fell down the fucking rabbit hole, wound up here. They’re so incredibly screwed.

+

Dean is thirty-five, aged. His body is in motion, nothing in the play of muscles like his teenaged self. Leaning down, licking a stripe up a sweat slicked back, he is nothing if not pure energy. Vibrations, liquid movement, laughter from his belly on up, ending in a rich baritone that’s his and his alone. Massaging the shoulder blade that’s splayed before him, he grinds down, teasing, with his dick drooling a tacky line on the rounded ass cheeks beneath him.

There’s a sigh, a melancholy tenor not from his own lips, and his hips stutter, circle, empathize. It’s a few birthdays past, an anniversary of a mother’s death, a father long ago lost to a mission. They've moved sideways to it all, and now there's the need to fuck it out, to taste and bite as it won't go away. Won't ever leave them be. Dean wants to wrench the sorrow away with his teeth, but tonight, tonight he flips onto his side and shoulder bumps his brother into moving on his as well.

Sam scoots in, and Dean is sweating already, heat surrounding him from all angles. His leg tucks forward, bent at the knee in order to stick his ass out, and Sam comes in for the kill. Hand smacking Dean's away, Sam pries him open, scenting along the column of Dean's neck. Pine, sweat, mineral ore – they’ve been stomping about the forest for a solid two days. Aches and pinpricks, their bodies screaming after the hunt.

Dean’s wet, prepped and lubed enough to be slick as a woman, asshole tight even after all the years they’ve been here, done this. The t.v. is playing random shit, an old Olivia Newton-John music video, Xanadu or whatever, and he grunts as Sam pushes the blunt head of his dick past the rim. Dean is forever impatient, pushes down and back, sinks Sam in quickly.

Their pace is slow. There's nowhere to be be, all the pain of them and more encroaching, and Sam battles for them both; counters the pace with punishing thrusts. Fucks them past the nothingness that threatens their spaces between. It's brutal, a fight they can handle, Sam's sweating palm holding Dean open, nearly ripping Dean’s leg hair out. Dean hears himself, outside of himself: lost, the slap of Sam’s balls against his ass loud in the room, lube squelching with the rhythm they’ve set. Dean pants, a burn setting him up, he’s on fire. Lost, not terrified, and this is his life now. He’s no idea how he became this, how he’s moaning like a whore in church for his kid brother’s dick. The one taking him apart piece by piece, year after year.

Dean is okay; he’s fan-fucking-tastic. Sam is safe, and Dean spasms backwards when his brother wraps long fingers around his mid-section on down, down, down to his dick. It sets him off, sets him shooting his load toward his chin, inner walls clamping down on Sam's dick. 

Sam is okay, maybe. Dean thinks _maybe_ as Sam’s balls tighten against his ass, as Sam skips a stroke, falters. They’ll be safe, and Dean’s on fire, never left that goddamned house maybe because he’s burning up when Sam empties all he has up in him. Liquid, they are. And Dean can sleep for a little bit, exhausted, cum leaking out his hole on down his thighs.

They’re okay here. Paradise.

Maybe.


End file.
